Desire

Dull not the edge of memory, O swift years, Nor drug with draught of days the thing called pain; Let not my eyes forget they once knew tears, For one beloved, who comes not home again.

Bring me these gifts when shines The Christmas tide;— The echo of his voice across the snow;— The echo of his footsteps at my side;— The essence of a joy of long ago.

And should they speak no more The radiant name, That sun and rain and wind read on a stone, Still let it burn within my heart as flame, Though only I remember it, alone.